Return to Wake Robin

by Marnie O. Mamminga

  This long stairway of log steps led up from the resort’s beach to one of the Moody’s Camp cabins we cleaned. In order to get to the other side of the camp and to the next cabin, we often carried our supplies up and down this staircase.

  Franklin and Vera Hobart Collection

  With our first cabin successfully under our belts, we confidently moved on to the next, figuring that at our quick pace, we’d be done in no time. Loaded with clean sheets and towels, we bundled the used ones up and dropped them off between stops at the log laundry cabin, where steamy scents of bleach and soap billowed out in blasts of hot vapor.

  It wasn’t long before we realized that carrying the supplies and linens up and down the hilly woodland paths from cabin to cabin was just as much work as the cleaning. And it wasn’t long after that, that the newness of the situation faded and our enthusiasm and energy began to wane. We got crabby. We got cranky.

  “How many more cabins are left anyway?” I asked my sister, who had handled most of the details.

  “We’re only halfway through,” she said. “We still have all the cabins on the hill up by ours to do yet. Remember, the camp is full.”

  She had to be kidding. But, of course, she was not. And, so, on we trudged. The energy of the morning quickly turned into fatigue, sore backs, and achy arms.

  At last, we were finished. Dropping off our supplies back at the kitchen, we reported in to Dick and Lucile. It was close to 1:30 in the afternoon. They thanked us warmly, told us we’d done a fine job, and with satisfied smiles said they’d see us in the morning.

  We dragged our weary selves back to our own cabin and, without even stopping for a late lunch, collapsed onto the saggy mattresses of our porch beds. Although we could hear our mother, siblings, and assorted friends having a gay old time splashing and swimming down at the dock, we were too exhausted to care.

  Within minutes, we were snoozing like a couple of hibernating bears. By the time we woke up from our nap, the sun was off our dock. So much for lake time.

  And so it went. Each day the same.

  A small log cabin across from the lodge was the laundry washing facility for all the linens at Moody’s Camp, circa early 1960s.

  Franklin and Vera Hobart Collection

  Three weeks of rise and shine at the crack of dawn. Three weeks of oatmeal breakfasts around the lodge’s kitchen table. Three weeks of up and down hills carrying cleaning supplies to thirteen tousled cabins. And no matter how fast we attempted to hasten our routine, we never finished before 1:00 or 2:00.

  I have not worked so physically hard since.

  Yet, despite the labor involved, it was pleasant to enter the uniqueness of each little log cabin. Although small in structure, they boasted their own personalities along with varying views of the lake and woods. Fresh breezes from open windows or tiny porches helped keep us cool as we worked, and, for the most part, the guests were fairly neat, which made cleaning easier.

  Our main drama as cabin girls arrived late one night when a family traveling up to the resort for their annual vacation hit a deer on one of the dark roads leading to the camp. To phrase it more accurately, the deer flew through the windshield and landed in the back seat on top of some of the family members.

  When we showed up for duty early the next morning, the kitchen table buzzed with the accident’s details. Dick and Lucile had attended to the family’s every need and comfort during the middle of the night, even assisting with medical care. Fortunately, no one was seriously hurt.

  The Phyliss cabin, with its charming screened porch, was one of thirteen cabins cleaned daily by cabin girls.

  Franklin and Vera Hobart Collection

  As cabin girls, Nancy and I had to be constantly on the lookout for tiny shards of glass that continued to fall out of the family’s clothes and belongings and onto the linens, floor, and furniture of their cabin throughout their two-week vacation. We never knew when we might be surprised by the sharp slivers as we cleaned their cabin, and so we performed our duties as if surrounded by poison ivy.

  Despite the daily routine, a crispness soon filled the early morning air and before we knew it, the approach of Labor Day signaled that a new school year was about to start. It was time to head home. We turned in our cleaning supplies and Dick handed us an envelope of pay for our services.

  “See if you think this is fair,” he said.

  Cautiously, Nancy and I peeked in our envelopes to discover a ninety-dollar check written out to each of us for our three weeks of work. Wow! That seemed like an awful lot of money. We were thrilled.

  “Yes, that’s fair!” Nancy said.

  “Thank you so much!” I added, thinking of the new school clothes I could now buy.

  Nevertheless, I can’t say I was sad to see my cleaning job end. I missed those lazy dock days on the lake, my friends, and cabin time, not to mention that I was dog-tired. We had been trained well, thanks to Lucile’s good instructions and Dick’s supervision, and despite our dislike of cleaning, we put our hearts and souls into the tasks at hand. After all, we did not want to disappoint Dick and Lucile.

  We would have even swum through weeds for them.

  Nancy returned the following summer, after her high school graduation in 1965, with a friend to work as lodge waitresses. They lived over the camp’s garage with another waitress, which sounded very fun and exotic to me. But my mother thought I was too young to stay with them unchaperoned and live that dream.

  As luck would have it, just when I did become of age, the Seitzes sold the resort, and I never got my chance. I’ve been sorry ever since.

  For despite the hard work and the early and long hours, being a cabin girl was a job I relished. What could be finer than to wake in the dawn’s glorious light, walk through the woods with my sister beside me, and eat a bowl of oatmeal around a kitchen table with some of the finest people my young heart had ever known?

  Besides learning to clean, I snagged a behind-the-scenes peek into everything that went into the maintenance of resort life as well. All my romantic notions of running a resort vanished faster than soap down a drain as I cleaned cabin after cabin, day after day.

  For behind the easy grace, camaraderie, fine food, and excellent fishing that camp life provided, there swirled an endless display of physical labor and meticulous care to detail by some of the kindest, most honest, hardworking, and devoted folks I have ever met. Their seamless efforts made the camp a Northwoods delight for all who played and rested there.

  To their credit, those continuous toils were the best-kept secret of the camp.

  But mostly I recognized that I got a lucky break on that long-ago square dance night. Whenever I am asked what was my first job, I am pleased to respond.

  “I was a cabin girl,” I say. “I cleaned cabins at Moody’s Camp, a Northwoods resort, when I was fourteen years old.”

  “Boy, that must have been hard work!” is the common response.

  “Yes,” I reply. “But it was one of the finest experiences of my life.

  “It was an honor.”

  Born to a Northwoods Birthday

  August 15, 1949

  “Think where man’s glory most begins and ends, And say my glory was I had such friends.”

  —William Butler Yeats

  My birthday cakes sang of the forest.

  No fat frosted roses circled the sides. No Happy Birthday in skinny script swirled across the top of a store-bought cake.

  Instead, they were homemade rounds of angel food cake wreathed in a cloud of white frosting lightly laced with wild-flowers, pine boughs, and ferns.

  And when the loons sang their flight songs across a purple dusk as though contributing an accompaniment to the beloved voices of family and friends ringing out around me, their cherished faces backlit by candlelight, no finer gift could be granted.

  For a Northwoods girl, being born in August was the icing on the cake.

  Perhaps because my very first birthday party took place amid the grandeur of the Nort
hwoods, I have always wanted it so. And for the better part of sixty-two years, my wish has come true.

  On August 15, 1950, my parents placed my one-year-old self snugly in my highchair outside amid the sheltering shade of pine, oak, and birch behind our cabin. As family and friends sang “Happy birthday to you …” my mother placed the beginning of what would be a long line of lovely wildflower cakes upon my tray.

  Ted and Myrtle Moody help me celebrate my first birthday in the fishing office adjacent to the lodge’s dining room, 1950.

  I, however, was more mesmerized by the pretty light of my single candle and promptly stuck my finger through its hot flame. It made for a good laugh over the years, and, thankfully, did not deter my curiosity for all things bright and beautiful, especially those of the Northwoods.

  From a young age, I knew there was no better place to be than Up North. And lucky for me, our annual family vacations usually coincided with August 15. With a handful of exceptions, I’ve been able to celebrate my birthday in the Northwoods ever since; it is a gift that only multiples in significance with each passing year.

  Although simple in nature, my birthdays have always been remarkable to me. Just to be surrounded by woods and water was a gift in itself. During my growing-up years in the 1950s and ’60s, my main present was to be treated to dinner at Moody’s lodge. My birthday was just the excuse for the whole family to enjoy an evening of fine dining and friends. Seated at one of the larger tables in the middle of the room, our family of seven savored this blissful ambience and the evening’s sumptuous entrée.

  But as the birthday girl, I dined in suspense.

  For sooner or later, Ted or Myrtle, and later Dick or Lucile, waltzed my wildflower cake out of the kitchen, and when they did, it was as if the whole room glowed from the light of the little candles. Instantly, the cacophony stopped and family, friends, resort staff, and guests turned and sang to me. And in that birthday moment, I felt blessed beyond belief with friendship and love.

  Lucile Seitz helps me serve my birthday cake during my tenth birthday party dinner at Moody’s lodge, 1959.

  My Northwoods presents, however, came with a flair entirely their own.

  Back home, my girlfriends received dolls, pretty clothes, sweet perfume, fun jewelry, and other coveted feminine treasures for their birthdays. But not me.

  I got fishhooks.

  I cannot say that fish bait, especially for a girl who did not particularly like to fish, answered the heart of her desires. Although I politely acknowledged the wooden fishing lures’ interesting colors and shapes—the bright orange and reds, the two-tone greens, the sparkling blacks—those big, barbed hooks were what really got my attention. And Eddie’s Bait—designed and crafted by the charismatic guide himself and of which I received several—was the king in that category.

  My sister Nancy had already lodged one of those sharp barbs in her head, such was our fishing finesse. So flinging one of those showstoppers around in the wind was not really at the top of my fun list. Yet, year after year, fishing lure birthday gifts accumulated to the extent that one might think I was striving to open up my own bait shop.

  Unfortunately, most of those lovely lures, now of vintage value, were lost over the years by my siblings’ and my repeated attempts to create our own fishing folklore. Flung out into the various weed beds of the lake where false rumors suggested the fish hung out, my lures, one by one, were snagged and snapped off forever.

  The muskies must still be laughing.

  One of the reasons I got so many lures is that it was difficult to go shopping in the woods. With Hayward more than 20 miles away, one did not exactly make a town run just for a birthday present. Consequently, family and friends simply headed up to Moody’s to select a gift from the items that lined the walls and shelves of the lodge’s office.

  It was a one-stop shop.

  So it was no surprise that, year after year, in addition to my abundant collection of fishing lures, I also received whole boxes of Hershey chocolate bars, packs of Spearmint and Juicy Fruit gum, a collection of red-and-white bobbers, an occasional Moody’s Camp sweatshirt, and, on one memorable birthday, my very own musky rod.

  I could have been a guide.

  Despite myself, I loved that fishing pole. With its ivory shaft and red-wrapped trim, it had a kind of fishing femininity that spoke to me. Besides, even if I didn’t like to fish, at least I could look the part.

  Although it was a short rod, believe me, this was no kid’s pole to catch minnows. Strong and sturdy, it was designed for heavy-duty action with a musky—a thought that sent shivers up my spine. After all, those monsters had fangs that would rival those of the wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood.” Consequently, I looked upon that rod with reverence and respect.

  I carried it around with love and devotion not only because it was my very own, but because it gave me credibility when I went for a boat ride even if I was just going out to cruise idly around the lake.

  Ever appreciative of these gifts and the thoughts behind them, I did try to fish. I really did. But mostly I just unsnagged weeds from my hooks or endlessly, cast after cast, detangled the fishing line in the reel, which, for some unknown reason, constantly became a snarled mess that looked like Medusa’s hair.

  Alas, the only significant fish I ever caught was a 15-inch walleye whose eye I snagged while trolling off an island as a friend rowed me patiently along. It was a gruesome catch. Our artist neighbor, who was visiting from home, inked its lovely image onto a Big Spider Lake map. Tacked to the bedroom wall of the cabin it has hung lo these many years, a proud reminder of my big fish success story as a young girl.

  My musky rod is one of my most treasured processions, a beloved birthday gift from my parents—beloved obviously not for the big musky I never caught but for their belief in me that I could.

  Fortunately, in addition to these fine fishing-themed presents, there gratefully and literally appeared a silver lining: gifts from two men I loved dearly.

  The first, from my father, was expected.

  For years, his signature birthday present to each of my siblings and me was a stack of silver dollars to match our age. But as silver dollars suddenly began to rapidly disappear from circulation, he spent hours tracking them down from the dwindling supplies of various area banks.

  So when I lifted his brown paper–wrapped present out of my fishing lure booty and felt its weight, I knew he’d done it once again. Tumbling the shiny silver coins into my lap and fingering their intricate design and long-ago dates, my father’s thoughtfulness and love shone through more precious than silver.

  The second silver gift, from resort owner Dick Seitz, was always a surprise.

  Somewhere during my birthday evening at the lodge, usually when I least expected it or when I thought he had forgotten me, Dick would appear out of nowhere and slyly slip a cool silver dollar into the warmth of my hand accompanied by a quiet “Happy Birthday, Marnie.” Sometimes he’d surprise me in the dim glow of an outside square dance; sometimes in amid the dining room’s merry sounds; or sometimes he’d appear out of the shadows by the kitchen’s back door as we started our walk home.

  I never knew if he did this for all the resort children who celebrated birthdays at the lodge or just for me. It matters not. All I know is that he never forgot. And like the gift of the silver dollar itself, his was a friendship you could count on.

  It is my sixteenth birthday party that stands out the most in a long line of celebrations.

  Maybe it was because in just a few short years the lake era as we had known it would end. Maybe it was because as teenagers, we were on the cusp of young adulthood, with all our desires and dreams before us as bright as a moonbeam path across the lake.

  And maybe it was because it was just plain, riotous fun.

  It wasn’t just my party, however. It was a dual celebration for my childhood friend Patty Hobart and me thrown by my mother and her grandmother. With our birthdays just days apart, Patty’s on August 12 and mine
on the fifteenth, Woody decided a Sweet Sixteen party was in order for the two of us.

  As was often the case, Patty was up at the lake at the same time as we were, staying at her grandparent’s cabin down the shore. Never having celebrated our birthdays together before, Patty and I were thrilled at the prospect, and we happily came up with a guest list comprised of the young people we knew on the lake.

  Our families over the years had shared an entwined history: Patty’s grandfather, Arthur Hobart, and my grandfather, Erle Oatman, had been business partners in the Oatman Brothers Inc. dairy business; our fathers, Franklin and David, had grown up together; and our mothers, Vera and Woody, became loyal, lifelong friends from their earliest married days.

  Most parties in the Northwoods were spontaneous and this one was no different. With just a few days to spare, Woody divided up the tasks and got the fun rolling. Patty’s grandmother painstakingly made matching sugar cube corsages tied with pretty ribbons for each of us. Woody wrote out stylish invitations on birch bark gathered from the forest floor and sent my siblings off to hand deliver them, no doubt causing a posse of gift hunters to descend upon the lodge office. Business must have boomed.

  Because it was a Sweet Sixteen party, there was much teasing about whether Patty and I had ever been kissed. There was obvious room for much speculation. Over the years on the lake together, we had both shared long-term crushes on our buddy Doug Seitz, who must have been in his glory when the two of us showed up at camp: two summer blondes tagging along beside him to fish, frog hunt, play cards, and swim. Patty and I were like a couple of eagles eyeing a catch.